by Mike Slavin
“My husband is in coach. We could get only one upgrade to first class. He’s a doll, always gives me the best,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am. But, if you’ll excuse me, I’m a little tired,” Case said. He didn’t look to see if she was offended. He sat back, pulled his hat over his eyes, and tried to take a nap.
Case woke up two hours later. First class had already been served a snack, and the lights in the plane were turned down. He would arrive in Vegas at 10:00 p.m. Although it was a weekday, Vegas would be very much alive.
How was he supposed to follow the two goons back in coach? He should get off first, being in first class, but sometimes they emptied the plane from the door behind first class. That would be bad. They would be facing each other as they moved toward the center door. Case would have to wait and see.
Las Vegas
Case woke up as the plane landed. When it pulled up to the gate, he began to get nervous. He was hoping to get ahead of them, but as luck would have it, the airline decided to deplane from behind first class. He kept his hat low and his head ducked, so he didn’t see them get off the plane.
At Vegas, the gates funneled into the baggage claim and taxi area. Case, having caught glances of them through the crowd, saw they weren’t moving in any particular hurry. He pushed and shoved, gaining a few angry looks. Case felt like a pinball as he heard all the bells and ringing of the slot machines throughout the airport. He managed to get well ahead of Pumpkin Head and Prego.
Case ducked into a souvenir shop and bought a new hat, jacket, and tote bag. He changed jackets, added a mauve Vegas logo baseball cap, and carried a local casino’s logo tote bag. The tote bag held his old disguise and the biggest letter opener he could find. The letter opener was the only weapon he had, except for his training.
He settled back to wait for his prey.
When Case spotted the goons, they seemed unsuspecting. They got in line at the taxi stand, and he quickly grabbed a limo.
“Follow those two guys at the taxi stand,” Case told the driver. Luckily, the limo was a dark blue Lincoln Town car with no markings—not too flamboyant. “I don’t want them to notice we’re following them. Is that a problem?”
“No, sir, but if you don’t have a destination in mind, I have to charge you by the hour.”
“You do a good job and there’s a hundred-dollar tip in it for you.”
The goons got into a taxi and Case’s car pulled out to follow them. They went straight to The Strip and into Bally’s Casino, a ten-minute ride.
Case followed them into the casino. Walking into Bally’s was like stepping into a large sunken pit full of snakes—the slot machines and the table games. Not fancy, but effective. Along the left side of the pit was a marble walkway that ran the length of the casino. At the other end were the elevators and a large hallway that descended into the convention area. By walking through the casino pit, Case could easily watch the goons without being noticed.
The tricky part was riding the elevator. Case had to see what floor they were going to. He slipped into the oversized elevator with a crowd of other people right before the goons got in. The crowd pushed him against the back wall, and the goons were standing at the front. People rarely turned and looked around inside elevators, so Case felt safe despite being so close to them. He watched as they used a particular room key which allowed them to push the twenty-sixth-floor button, the location of one of Bally’s four penthouses.
The rest of the passengers got off on the fifteenth floor. It was just Case in the back of the elevator and the two goons in the front. Would they recognize him if they turned around? Case kept his hat pulled down over his face. No one spoke. As the next eleven floors slid past, one floor at a time, his nervousness increased. It felt like an eternity as he waited for one of the goons to look over his shoulder.
When the doors finally opened on twenty-six, he silently exhaled a deep breath he wasn’t aware he’d been holding.
The goons went one way, while Case went the other. He looked back over his shoulder to see them go into Penthouse B, talking loudly to someone as they went in. Case turned around and took the elevator back to the lobby. He’d found out what he could, for now. Time to relax and think.
17
I love Vegas.
Case walked into the New York-New York Casino. The sensory overload of the noises and flashing lights felt familiar. It relaxed him, even as it enticed him to play. He and Becky had gone to Vegas five or six times a year. They’d always taken three grand, their soft limit for losses. But they’d seldom lost it all, and if they went over their limit, it was by just a little bit.
The constant drone of slots had served as a backdrop for their time together. Becky had won so often, Case couldn’t believe it. Of course, the machines had usually taken back most of the winnings. Her game had been dollar video poker. The cashiers had joked with him because he’d cashed out so often for her.
He had loved playing video poker with his wife and had tried all the table games over the years. When he tried no-limit Texas hold ’em, he was hooked.
Case was eager to get to the poker tables if he had time. First, he needed a room. Then he had to make a few calls.
Vicky Fisher, his casino hostess, always took great care of him. Although Case talked to Vicky often to arrange his accommodations, transportation, and various other needs, he had met her in person only a few times. Case usually gave her advance notice, but obviously not this time. He called Vicky from a casino house phone, hoping she was there, because it was nearly midnight.
“Vicky, it’s Jeff Case. How are you?”
“Jeff! Good to hear from you. You in Vegas or planning to come?”
“I’m here in the casino. Sorry for the short notice. I hoped you might have a room for me.”
“I think we’re sold out, but let me look.” Case heard her banging away on her computer. “You’re in luck. Looks like I can get you in a Ziggurat Suite.”
“Great! I'll take it. And then I need just one more favor.”
“Sure, what can I do for you?”
“I need you to find out who is registered in Penthouse B at Bally’s.”
“I’m not sure …” she said, hesitation in her voice.
“Don’t you know someone over there?”
“It’s asking a lot. We aren’t supposed to do that, you know.”
“But you can do it for me, right?”
“I’ll try, but no promises. Let me give you a call in the morning.”
“I really appreciate this,” Case said.
“You’d better,” she said.
When Case got to his room, he wasted no time. His first call was to his friend, Lieutenant Larry Marsh, on his cell. Larry didn’t answer. Instead, Case caught him at the office.
“I’m in Vegas,” Case said.
“Vegas? Then I suppose you know what happened to Robert Guess?”
“What?”
“Come on, don’t bullshit your best friend,” Larry snapped. “I’m on your side. You told me you were going to go see him and you were in his appointment book for four o’clock.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be reading me my rights?”
“Do you want me to read you your rights?” Larry asked.
“No, of course not. You don’t really think I killed the guy, do you?”
“I don’t think you killed him,” he replied, “but even if you didn't—”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Case interrupted.
“You need to get back here. Mr. Guess is, was, a bit of a celebrity. The detectives on this have nothing so far. Apparently, nobody saw anything. It looks like a suicide—he left a note. Family and friends say he was pretty upset about his book ... whatever. Anyway, that all adds up to suicide.”
“So, what’s the big deal about me?” Case asked.
“They want you back here tomorrow so they can interview you,” he said. “They know we’re friends and asked me to find you.”
“I’m
not sure when I’ll be able to catch a plane, but I’ll call you in the morning and let you know.”
“See that you do.”
Case’s next call was to his assistant, Sam.
“Sorry to wake you. Keep this to yourself, but I’m in Vegas at New York-New York. Any important messages?”
“Lieutenant Marsh has been looking for you.”
“I already spoke to him. Anything else?” Case asked. “You heard about Guess? It was all over the news. I hear they’re calling it a suicide.”
“Yeah. Some reporters called. I blew them off … at least for now,” Sam said.
“Good. I’ll be back tomorrow. I’ll call in the morning to let you know when.” Case could accomplish nothing more by calling anyone else that night.
What would Vicky learn about who was in the Bally’s Casino penthouse? Was it the guy who had ordered Mr. Guess thrown off the building?
For now, the casino—specifically, the poker table—called. Case might even settle for craps if he couldn’t get on a poker table.
Coming off the elevator and back into the casino, he was bombarded by the sounds of slots and the low roar of intermittent shouts from the craps and roulette tables.
He checked the poker room, but there was a wait for a seat, and he didn’t want to wait. Craps was Case’s fallback game of choice in a casino. He could almost always win at poker, as it relied much more on skill, but craps was much harder to win at consistently. Still, it was fun.
“Give me all quarters,” Case said as he dropped ten one-hundred-dollar bills on the table. The dealer pushed two stacks of green twenty-five-dollar chips toward him. He placed his bets and lost himself in the game for over an hour. People came and went, but the dice remained good to him.
Case left the table and cashed out to retire for the night. Winning always felt good, but at three in the morning, it was time for sleep.
18
“What the fuck did you guys do?” Tony asked. “I didn’t say kill him. How can the guy tell me anything if he’s dead? Are you fucking crazy or what?”
“It was an accident, boss,” Greg said. “We took him to the roof to scare him. We stood him on the ledge. Then, you know? He slipped. It was an accident.”
Marco stood beside Greg but didn’t say a word.
“An accident? Are you that fucking stupid?” Tony spat out the words right in Greg’s face. “What the fuck are we going to do now?”
“There’s something else,” Greg said.
“What?” Tony barked.
“Some guy may have seen us off Mr. Guess.”
“Are you that goddamn stupid? Who was it?”
“Some guy named Jeff Case. He owns an oil company. I looked him up on the plane while sitting on the runway. There’s plenty of information on him on the Internet. I also memorized his license plate, and I called our guy after we landed. He gave me this Case guy’s home address in Houston.”
Tony said nothing. Greg had seen this before. He had worked for Tony for seventeen years. It was never good when Tony went silent. Tony was usually very composed, but occasionally he could be unpredictable.
Tony pulled out a revolver and spun the cylinder, as he often did when he was plotting. Greg had once seen Tony shoot a guy right between the eyes, point blank. He’d never do something like that in a hotel where someone might hear it … would he? Or to him?
Or is this the day I die?
Finally, Tony broke the silence in a hushed voice. “You go back to Houston and clean this up, hear me? Take the Town Car and whatever you need to finish the job. Use your fucking head this time. Don’t come back unless this guy is dead, and no witnesses! Got it?” He patted Greg on the shoulder. “We go way back, so let’s fix this.”
“Sure, boss.” Greg could hear the relief in his own voice.
“Now get out of here and keep me posted,” Tony said.
As Greg and Marco were leaving, two men, including Tony's business advisor, Derek Johnson, walked into the room. Derek was maybe thirty, had graduated from Duke, and had a business degree. He’d owned various businesses before Tony hired him. Tony may have made his money in questionable ways, but he wanted all his businesses to make money legally. He still had a few interests off the books, but he loved his oil company.
The other guy who entered the room was a stranger to Greg. He wore shorts, a polo shirt, and sunglasses. He looked very relaxed as he took a seat, leaned back, and crossed his legs.
Who is this guy? Is Tony cutting me out of the loop?
Greg felt sick again.
Tony said, “Greg, hang on a minute.”
Greg turned back. “Yes, sir?”
“This is Mr. Wimpy. I want him to go with you to Houston,” Tony said. Wimpy was a small man, maybe in his early forties, five foot eight, a hundred forty pounds, Greg would guess. Wimpy looked surprised.
Greg laughed. “That’s a good one, boss.”
Wimpy stood and took a couple of steps with his hand stretched out to Greg. He smiled broadly. “Nice to meet you,” he said as they shook, “but that is my real name. Martin Wimpy.” Wimpy turned to Tony. “What’s this about my going to Houston?”
“If you want my business, you’ll go. You have a problem with that?”
“Not at all,” Wimpy said reluctantly. “But I need to get back as soon as I can.”
“Sooner you leave, sooner you come back.”
“Now?”
The three men walked toward the door.
“Greg, come here a second,” Tony said as the other two men walked into the hall.
“Yes, boss.” Greg turned and walked back.
Tony leaned into Greg and in a low voice said, “Don’t tell Wimpy why you’re going to Houston, understand?”
After the three had left, Tony turned to look out the window. He smiled. Greg would get the job done. Plus, he wanted insurance on Wimpy, his new transportation specialist. He had the contacts, drivers, planes, and even warehouses, but Tony always had trouble with reliable transportation. He’d lost too many loads already.
It was his specialty now. Tony had started in trafficking marijuana, and he still did to the states where it wasn’t legal. But years ago, he’d already known legalization was coming, so he’d expanded into other drugs. It made him an easy twenty million a year, but his transportation problem had to be solved if he was going to grow. Even though he wanted out, he’d still grow the business until he could exit. It just made so much money.
That was where Wimpy came in. Wimpy claimed he could move anything, any amount, anywhere. He came with solid recommendations, but Tony didn’t know him. If he went to Houston and got involved in the disposal of Mr. Case, Tony would feel much more comfortable.
It was always handy to have a murder rap hanging over someone's head. It guaranteed trust.
19
Las Vegas
June 6, 2018, Tuesday
Greg and Marco dropped off Mr. Wimpy at his hotel room and said they’d be back in an hour to get him. They went to the house they shared and grabbed clothes, shotguns, an automatic weapon, and some pistols. And one block of C-4 with some demolition caps, just in case.
“How do you feel about this Wimpy guy?” Greg asked.
“He worries me,” Marco said. “Has it crossed your mind he may be going with us to put a bullet in our heads?”
“I dunno. He looked surprised when Tony told him to go,” Greg said.
“Could be an act,” Marco said.
“Maybe, but Tony told me not to tell him we’re going to whack Case and to make sure you don’t tell him. Remember, we’re just going to collect money.”
“Yeah, okay, but like I said, it could all be an act. Look how the guy’s dressed. He could be an outside hitman.”
“I’ve known Tony a long time. I can’t believe he’d try to whack me. You think Tony’s really that pissed at us?”
“I don't know. He seemed awfully calm,” Marco said.
“Shit, this is nerve-racking. If he wants to ki
ll us, do you think it’ll be on the way to Houston or on the way back?”
“Dunno. What should we do?”
“I’m not sure. I think we better do Wimpy before he does us, and as soon as possible.”
“Won’t Tony just get someone else if he wants us dead?” Marco asked.
“Yeah, true. So, we have to consider taking care of Tony, too,” Greg answered in a confused, unbelieving voice. “I’d really hate to do that.”
“Self-preservation, man. Or we could just disappear.” Marco seemed to be much more concerned than Greg did.
“Why don’t we talk to Tony? If he wants you dead, running isn’t an option,” Greg said. “Okay, here's the plan. You drive to Houston. I’ll sit in the back and Wimpy rides shotgun. I’ll have my pistol on me, so we have to keep our eyes open and take no chances. We might just be paranoid. Everything’ll probably be fine.”
“Yeah, I’m okay with that,” Marco said.
It was a short drive to Wimpy’s hotel. They didn’t say much more. They pulled off the street into a small parking lot. “Well, we’re here. Let’s hope it goes smooth,” Marco said.
They picked up Wimpy from the small hotel and continued on their way.
“You got a weapon, Mr. Wimpy? I can stash it in the trunk. There’s a false wall, just in case we’re stopped,” Greg said.
“Thanks, but I’d rather keep it on me.”
Greg and Marco shared a long look, but didn’t press the man to hand over his weapon.
Wimpy was a hard guy not to like. He seemed well traveled and kept moving from one story to the next—being stranded in a lifeboat at sea, meeting the king of some country in the Middle East, being kidnapped by pirates around Indonesia. Plus, he mixed in a few jokes to keep things interesting.
Greg and Marco started to relax, but Greg kept reminding himself Mr. Wimpy might still try to kill them.
They made a few stops for the bathroom, drinks, and junk food. It seemed like Greg had to pee every hour or two as they crossed some pretty barren land. After a while, everyone fell silent. Marco turned on the radio. Marco and Greg liked pop, but Wimpy liked classical or country. They agreed to take turns picking the station on the satellite radio, which had various genres of music to choose from.